


Job Satisfaction

by Bluebellstar



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, M/M, Office Supplies, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24252352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebellstar/pseuds/Bluebellstar
Summary: Jamie really loves his job. Malcolm wishes it didn't come with so much destruction of office equipment.
Relationships: Jamie MacDonald/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	Job Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in some mystical au where Jamie stayed on, there was no enquiry, Nicola is still the incompetent party leader, and Glenn is still where he belongs.
> 
> Also, I know I should be continuing my WIP that I apparently abandoned, but this was what came out when I tried, so maybe tomorrow.
> 
> In the meantime, I'll stop writing, and please enjoy!

Job satisfaction. That was what Jamie had. There was something immensely satisfying about the way the plastic shell of a fax machine cracked underfoot. Plastic screaming was sweeter than birdsong, the rattle of delicate machinery splintering more uplifting than a choir. And he got paid for it! He fucking loved his job. Fear tinged the air, whimpers circling about Tucker's attack dog gone feral. Well fuck you very much, he wasn't feral; Jamie was making a point. A glorious and righteous point. It wasn't his fault that the dumb fucks formally known as DoSAC didn't understand the simple rules Jamie was trying to get them to internalise. Julius Nicholson (the sycophantic bawbag) had failed to get them to understand using diplomacy and calmness (also known as a misguided and utterly futile attempt to get Malcolm to shag him), which was why Jamie had - graciously - offered to step in.

He had even been _reasonable _about it.__

__Jamie grinned, all white teeth and terrifying eyes, Ollie Reeder (newly instated resident of the coveted top spot in Jamie's shit list) taking a step back in fear. Oh, Jamie wasn't stupid, he knew that Sam had slipped off to inform Malcolm, but this was what Malc had hired him for. Nobody could put the ever-loving, shit-bleaching fear of Malcolm Tucker in people the way that Jamie could. It just so happened that he thoroughly enjoyed doing so. Cunts deserved to be terrified of Malc - he had worked too fucking hard at his job for them not to be - but they'd fucking well better respect him as well. He had earned it with blood, sweat and spinal fluid. Malcolm had sacrificed his health and sanity for this party; it fucking owed him big time. Jamie was just the self-appointed enforcer of that respect. So to have smarmy little cunts like Ollie fucking Reeder (who no doubt still longed for the simple days when he was still being breast fed) dare question Malcolm's strategy, tactics and fucking integrity - well, for once Jamie was almost in agreement with Glenn. Nobody, NOBODY, mouthed off about Malcolm while Jamie was breathing. Frankly, Ollie was lucky he still was - and not through a fucking tube._ _

__While he was decimating the fax machine with righteous fury and holy vengeance, Jamie kept up a lethal diatribe on respect, professionalism, and not speaking so much as a fucking syllable against Malcolm or the Party, or the way that Malc- er, Nicola ran it. Somewhere during the twentieth minute of Jamie's demonstration (the fax machine now having lost all manner of distinguishing feature), Ollie (the mincing cunt) turned distinctly green (hopefully about to throw up from the mental image of Jamie peeling his scrotum with a broken pint glass and skewering it back into place with a rusty nail), and made a noise like his sister's ex-hamster getting run over. Jamie's spectators (Nicola, Hugh, Glenn and Helen) took hurried steps back themselves. There was only one reason - aside from Jamie turning on them next - that they would step back in perfect unison: Malcolm._ _

__"Jamie." Amused, tolerant, and with that familiar 'I dinnae know why I fucking tolerate you but I do' undercurrent, of course it was his Malc. He glanced at him and smiled innocently, Malc's grey eyes twinkling in turn._ _

__"Hi, Malc. Good meeting?"_ _

__"Aye, about as good as could be expected. Until a wee birdie told me you were destroying another valuable piece of office machinery. D'ye even know how much these fucking things cost? I swear I should make you read the office budget, maybe then ye wouldnae be so keen on-" Malc peered at the mess on the floor. "What the fuck did you do? Stomp on it?" The disbelieving head shake almost hid the smile on Malcolm's face. "Fucking hell, Jamie. Was there a point to it?"_ _

__To be honest, Jamie couldn't exactly remember why he had chosen to illustrate his point using the fax machine. It could've been simply because it was there and easier to hit than an employee during the day, but Malc would have a fit if Jamie said that. So, he settled for shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels, grinning. It was his expression of being supremely convinced of the fact that he had done nothing wrong._ _

__Malcolm scrubbed his hand over his face, definitely hiding a smile. "Jesus, Jamie."_ _

__"You say dinnae hit the employees, so I didnae" Jamie shrugged, comfortable now he knew Malc wasn't going to burst a blood vessel. Jamie loved the bastard angry, just not at him. "I dinnae see what the problem is." Malcolm pointedly gestured to the no longer recognisable fax machine. Jamie grinned wider._ _

__"I hired a psycho" Malcolm muttered, tone light and eyes twinkling._ _

__"And I left the seminary for a workaholic" Jamie replied in the same delighted tone. "We all have our crosses to bear, darlin."_ _

__"Aye, Jamie" Malcolm conceded - being reasonable today, wasn't he? Definitely wanting that shag later; not that Jamie was complaining. They were going through a spell dryer than the fucking Sahara. "Be that as it may, but my workaholism makes money. Your vendetta against fax machines costs money."_ _

__Jamie smiled his most infuriating 'I am not wrong' smile, cheerfully ignoring everyone not his vitriolic boss/when-they-managed-to-drag-themselves-home shag buddy. "All balances out in the end, doesnae it, Malc?"_ _

__"You are lucky I like you, wi' logic that fucked up" Malcolm informed him, pen pointed severely at his face. Still, those grey eyes - usually so keen to incinerate - softened more than enough to see that Malcolm was actually enjoying himself. Halle-fuckin'-lujah._ _

__"Ach, away wi' that logic shite" Jamie dismissed, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "Why do I need that when I've got you?"_ _

__"That's no' nearly as charming as you think it is, MacDonald" Malcolm said severely, but Jamie could see the corner of his lip twitch upwards._ _

__"Aye, it fuckin' is."_ _

__"Psycho" Malcolm muttered fondly. Jamie took that as the concession that it was. Malc spared one final twinkle for Jamie, then turned his iciest glare on their audience. "You! Twathead; clean up the mess. Don't make me have Jamie babysit you for the rest of our time in opposition. Glenn, back to the Press Office - we've got new figures through. The rest o' ye; get the fuck back to work." When those deadly eyes turned to Jamie, there wasn't even a trace of ice left. "Jamie, we have work tae do." Jamie took a moment to enjoy the sight of Malcolm walking back to his office, then grinned sharply. Press briefings, bollockings, and reports to read until his eyes bled: this was the fucking life. Fuck anyone who said different._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
